


A Man's Weakness

by UltraVioletSoul



Category: Call of Duty, Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Communism, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Dealing, Explicit Language, F/M, Historical References, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Organized Crime, Overprotective, Patriotism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Referenced prostitution, Sexism, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Vladimir is an angry emo, Vladimir-centric, War, War Crimes, Xenophobia, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltraVioletSoul/pseuds/UltraVioletSoul
Summary: When people heard the name of Vladimir Makarov they thought of a madman, a terrorist, a murderer, a mercenary on sale for the highest bidder. His long list of atrocious crimes throughout the years had earned him the infamous reputation of a merciless beast.But even a monster like him had a weakness.[[ Vladimir Makarov x F!Reader]]





	1. i. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlmesivaMoonshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [That Decent, Slavic Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371362) by [AlmesivaMoonshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow). 



> Ah shit, here we go again...
> 
> Well, yes, after a looooong time I finally decided to write something for CoD. And it's all thanks to AlmesivaMoonshadow. I had completely forgotten about this fandom until I decided to check the Vladimir Makarov tag and found her beautiful fic that changed my life and I'm so grateful because I haven't had so many feels for a story in years. It was what motivated me to write some Makarov x Reader because, let's face it, that Russian s.o.b. never gets enough love. Forgive my poor attempt at historical references, but eh... I guess it'll offer some context.
> 
> As you can see, I added her story as my inspiration so, if Vladimir is your fave, GO CHECK IT OUT. It's amazing. Truly, this girl is something and I love her. Thanks for rekindling my love for Volodya.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Call of Duty Modern Warfare or its characters. They all belong to Activision and Infinity Ward. No copyright infringement intended. All I’m trying to do is provide entertainment to the readers and by no means do I have lucrative purposes. I don't mean to offend anyone and nothing in this story truly reflects my personal opinions. I'm merely trying to portray things as they would be from Vladimir's perspective.

_Felt like sharing this picture of Volodya ♥♥. He was such a pretty boy in the concept art of MW2._

_Every man has his weakness_. That was something Vladimir had kept in mind throughout his years, working as Zakhaev’s executioner. 

Exploiting the vulnerabilities of his enemies was a tactic he'd perfected to get what he wanted. He'd never been a man who settled for less so he didn’t care about the methods used, however deplorable or morally questionable they were. The end always justified the means, and yielding results was all that mattered in the end.

If he'd cared about such petty considerations, he would have never gotten this far up in the chain of command. Zakhaev would have never taken any notice of him. He would have been just another grunt among the myriad of followers in the Ultranationalist Party. The old man had taken a liking to him because he trusted him to get things done, no questions asked. Vladimir never had excuses, never let his conscience get in the way of his objectives and never hesitated even in the worst of situations. Combined with the ruthlessness of a cold-blooded killer, the charisma of a leader, and the cunning of a fox, he was exactly what Zakhaev needed and he was ready to prove it. Most importantly, he was loyal and truly devoted to the cause in body and soul— his love for Russia was violent, even obsessive to those who would rather see their land humiliated by foreign powers. 

Was it not what they had beaten into his head for so many years, in the _suvorov_ school and the military academy? Back in the VDV, his days as a blue beret of the airborne troops, they told him that loyalty and love for his country should be above all things. To fight for the glory of this land was his purpose, his reason to live and die. 

Vladimir's resourcefulness, relentless drive, and his ability to lead and motivate his men even in dire circumstances, piqued the interest of a recently formed regiment looking to recruit new members. Designed for counter-insurgence, reconnaissance and special operations, it was subordinate to the GRU. 

In a war where victories seemed to be few and far between, the army was reduced to a shadow of its former self, and the morale of the troops down in the dumps, soldiers like him were hard to come by. His aptitudes earned him a place in the special forces, a different kind of beast altogether. They trained him to be a violent breed of warrior— heartless, cold, unforgiving, and efficient to wipe out the enemy wherever he was in situations that would make others break down under the sheer pressure. He existed with only one goal in mind: to accomplish the mission no matter the cost, by any means necessary. Those who stood in the way, who dared go against the interests of Russia and betrayed her, had to perish.

He had followed orders and fought to serve his country with pride. They turned him into this monster, ready to spill blood at their whim, and later cast him aside like some sick dog. 

From the moment an EU investigation panel began to look into his actions during the First Chechen War, his career in the armed forces was finished. War crimes, they said. Violations of human rights. His involvement in _zachistkas_ (clean up operations in villages housing separatists) drew the outrage of many. These people judged him when they couldn’t even begin to understand the brutal reality of an armed struggle. Political correctness had no place there. Conventions and codes of conduct meant little when both sides sought mutual annihilation. And those so-called civilians? They forewent any right to protection the moment they decided to collaborate with the Chechen _boyeviki_.

War was not a walk in the park, it wasn’t a child’s game with a set of rules to follow. It was a fight for survival, it was seeing the face of death every day. Of course these bureaucrats at the UN wouldn’t understand, sitting at their desks pen-pushing all day while spouting lies and hypocrisy to cover up their own dirty secrets and crimes. Meanwhile, they made the world their battlefield and profited from the ruin of other countries. The US and its allies meddled in this war, they trained the Chechen rebels and supported their uprising against Russia— taking advantage of a moment of weakness, as the Soviet Union dissolved. They were responsible for the death of his comrades, and they had the nerve to judge him for protecting his country against those who wanted to destroy her. 

Were they supposed to ask those filthy insurgents, nicely, that they lay their weapons down and put an end to this rebellion? It was easy for outsiders to criticize his actions when they weren't bleeding and dying. It wasn't them who had to bury the bodies of their fallen comrades, who walked a limbo between the living and the dead. Who gave their souls at the service of an incompetent government that in the end chose to yield, as if the sacrifices and blood of these men meant nothing. 

With the imminent possibility of facing imprisonment, his military career ended abruptly and he was given no other option but to leave the armed forces. What else could a war criminal like him do for a living? Get a job in a collapsing system where unemployment was rampant, and if you had a job you’d have to wait entire months for the next payment that might never come? Try to fit in the civilian life with a human rights organization breathing down his neck? Could he even do that, after all the shit he’d seen and done? Someone of his kind was undesirable, a disgusting individual with no regard for others— the reminder of a horrible mistake and a humiliating defeat that contributed to the deep economic crisis in the country. He was the embodiment of everything wrong in the government and someone had to be blamed for the incompetence of its leaders.

People had been lied to. They genuinely believed that the Cold War was over, and that the west was their friend— that they had the interests of Russia at heart as the NATO got closer to the borders. Now they were truly free to enjoy economic depression, mass poverty and suicides, homelessness, hunger, skyrocketing levels of corruption and crime, all those good things the western democracy and capitalism had brought. The ruble was worth shit. If people had the money, they saved in dollars lest they would end up with a bunch of useless papers next week that were only good for wiping their ass. Scams became the norm with promises of quick cash (pyramid schemes, fool’s lotteries), ‘gurus’ taught mumbo jumbo for good fortune, and others brainlessly believed that pseudo-religious crap would change their lives.

Many places across the country were ghost towns and abandoned factories. The so-called free market was beginning to take hold in the big cities and American dollars became the most reliable currency to make business as the government asked billionaire loans from the IMF, whose policies had only wrecked the nation and left her in even deeper debt. And Russia kept holding onto it, like a junkie yearning for the next injection of credits that would go into the pockets of those rats at the Kremlin. They would bend the knee to the west, like they always did. They would prostitute the country, staining the pride and honor of Russia while she lay debauched and humiliated. 

This was the world of freedom and infinite possibilities people had been promised.

Vladimir didn’t think he asked for too much. All he ever wanted was to have a decent life, maybe a wife and some kids running around the house, a good record in the armed forces that would have made his father and grandfather proud. 

_One day you'll be a great soldier, Volodya._ His old man said before leaving for Afghanistan. His _dedushka_ used to tell him stories about how they pushed back the fascists all the way to Berlin. Nowadays, Russia was receiving 'humanitarian' aid from a country she defeated five decades ago. 

Everyone was supposed to embrace change. He hated it.

But he adapted.

The nineties were days of glory for the _bratvas_. Gangsters all dressed in black, extorting left and right, doing contract killings was the image that would pervade Hollywood movies in later years. These groups flourished in this new lawless ground, where might made right, and became Russia’s new overlords while Yeltsin wandered the streets of Washington in underwear, drunk out of his mind. Freedom sure tasted good for them, and they did as they pleased with impunity in a power vacuum.

Many ex-KGB and special forces veterans from the Soviet-Afghan and Chechen war joined the ranks as bodyguards, runners, killers. He was no exception. Vladimir put his special training to use in many illicit businesses: drug-smuggling from the poppy fields of Afghanistan, human-trafficking and prostitution of women from Eastern Europe, assassination, torture, kidnapping, bombing, money laundering. Nothing could faze him at that point. 

The money was good. He'd seen more cash than he could count and was able to make a year’s worth of income in a single month. He could have anything he wanted in this world where money talked. If you had wealth, nothing was off limits. Absolutely nothing. Yet even these newfound pleasures and excesses did little to fill the void in him. 

He craved something more. Something that no money could buy. 

In 1997, the Russian government issued an amnesty to pardon the crimes that both sides committed during the First Chechen War, but it was too late for him. 

He wouldn't go back to the same armed forces that shunned him, to be subservient or those leeches that sat in power and sucked the blood of the country while pretending they cared. 

He wanted to see this government removed.

He wanted to see the west burn.

He wanted to take back the glory and pride Russia had lost.

And when he met Imran Zakhaev, he finally found what he’d been looking for. 

A reason to fight for.

A cause to believe in. 

A means to exact his revenge.

But with this newfound strength and ambition, there was also you.

A woman more trouble than she was worth.

A thorn in his side. 

An obsession he could not give up.

They say they cannot take risks  
because they have a house,  
a house with light.  
And I don't know for sure who of us is right.  
Rain awaits me outside.  
A lunch awaits them in their house.

Close the door behind me.  
I'm leaving.

And if your sweet light ever bores you,  
you can find a place with us,  
there's enough rain for everyone.  
Look at the clock, look at the portrait on the wall,  
Listen-- there, at the window,  
you will hear our laughter.

Close the door behind me.  
I'm leaving.


	2. ii. home is but a faraway dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update? Wow, this is the end of the world :D
> 
> Trying to do short chapters instead of my usual 10,000-15,000 words. It's yielding some interesting results but maybe I'm too excited about this story :v
> 
> I didn't think this would turn out to be so Vladimir-centric but well... that's how the chips fall.
> 
> On a side note, I got all nostalgic for Call of Duty 2. The Soviet campaign was undoubtedly my favorite part of the game, as was in CoD WaW. Too bad it wasn't included in CoD WWII. 
> 
> Also, no idea where it came from but apparently Sergei L. is an alias Vladimir used in the past. Maybe it appeared in some loading screen of MW3. I'll have to check it out some time.
> 
> Also sorry for any inaccuracies, and mistakes. Please, no one should take this as a history lesson. There are probably many things that are way off and the perspective is pretty biased. This isn't Soviet propaganda.

He adopted a few identities and went by many names, but most in the criminal underworld would come to know him as Sergei. In time, Vladimir Makarov became a stranger— someone he used to know, perhaps— and he sought to cut ties with his old life. 

Whatever family he had, he left behind. It wouldn’t do any good to remain close to them, considering the risks of his 'profession' and the fact some people wanted to settle scores with him. They would only get in the way and he doubted they would miss him at any rate. Not that his relationship with his relatives was strained, but everyone had their own problems to deal with and was trying to get by in this brutal recession.

He hadn't seen them since returning from Chechnya. His mother tried to get in touch, but he was never home— a lie, of course, he simply couldn’t bring himself to open the door. Occasionally, he called to let her know he was still alive but their conversations were often short. He didn't want to tell her that he'd been discharged and the reasons why, didn't want to talk about what happened back in Chechnya. It was enough that she’d lost her husband in Afghanistan, better spare her the misery of her son being investigated for war crimes. 

_Dedushka_ was gone as well, fell down the stairs of the apartment block where he lived and hit his head. He was drunk after watching the news the Soviet Union was no more, outraged at the treason and incompetence of Mikhail Gorbachev that ultimately led Russia to political and economic disaster. 

A year later _babushka_ followed him to the grave.

Vladimir had just graduated from the Frunze military academy with the rank of captain, and was stationed in Berlin at the time when he received word of his grandfather’s decease. By November 1991, he'd seen the last remnants of The Wall collapse— a proper analogy for what would soon follow for the Soviet Union a month later. He still remembered the television broadcast that evening, the crestfallen faces of his compatriots as they looked down and silently accepted their defeat— unable to do anything. The world watched as Gorbachev resigned and the red flag was lowered for the last time outside the Kremlin, at 7:32 pm time of Moscow on December 25th. 

"Is it over for us, comrade captain?" 

Someone asked him as if he truly knew the answer. 

"Comrade captain?" 

Was this the end? A mighty state, a military superpower with the largest nuclear arsenal and army in the world, that had defeated Nazi Germany in the Great Patriotic War, leader of the space race, a pioneer of the most important advancements in technology in the latest years, had just crumbled into nothingness before his own eyes?

It could not be.

But the Soviet Union was officially dead. It was a demise he'd seen coming and dreaded, yet he didn't expect this pitiful, almost pathetic ending.

Finally, at 11:44pm, the tricolor flag of the Russian Federation rose. A victory for democracy, the downfall of authoritarianism, the west called it. A betrayal to Russian people who wished to save their homeland, an opportunity for oligarchs to loot the country and line up their pockets with the silent complicity of those in power— destroying the future and dreams of many.

Nights of booze, gambling and whores couldn't make him forget how bitter he felt. In a world without prospects, without anything to fight for and believe in, it was easy to fall into a spiral of complacency and self-pity. If his father saw him in this sorry state, he would be ashamed. Even Vladimir was embarrassed.

Wasting his life away seemed like a good idea, at the time, until he remembered his mother probably wasn't doing so well. 

Once he'd sobered up, he mustered the courage to do pay her a visit— not knowing if it was the last time he'd see her. In this business, you never knew so it would be good to take a few precautions.

Ivanovo was famously known as the City of Brides, since its textiles industries attracted many women seeking work from all over Russia. It was also the City of the First Soviet and a hotbed for bolshevik activity before the October Revolution. An important front city during the Second War, it was close to enemy lines and plans around its defense were developed. Its efforts in the war were invaluable, offering shelter and care to injured soldiers in the front as well as donating huge quantities of fabric to produce over twelve million uniforms.

It was at that time his grandparents met, too. _Dedushka,_ a simple soldier then, used to brag that he'd married the prettiest bride of them all.

This was the place where Vladimir had spent his childhood, where he'd made many happy memories. A prosperous city in the past, the heart of textile production in the Soviet Union and part of the industrial golden ring around Moscow, Ivanovo was slowly falling apart with liberal reforms, budget cuts, privatizations, the lack of Uzbek cotton and closing of many factories.

It was difficult to ignore the widespread poverty and disillusion in everyone's gazes. The sight was depressing; homeless people begged for food in the streets, some even dug in the trash for a scrap of bread. Others tried to sell any vegetables they grew at home, trinkets, anything that could get them by one more day. 

As a city lying northeast of Moscow, it wasn't strange that crime and violence had propagated. Drugs, alcoholism, prostitution, malnourishment and diseases became commonplace. People froze to death on the streets during winter and had no access to healthcare. They jumped from bridges to drown in the river, locked themselves up in their apartments to die of gas poisoning, or ended their lives on the railroads. 

With just a backpack on his shoulder and a cigarette between his lips, Vladimir crossed the Uvod to the other side of the city. He'd never been one to smoke but since Chechnya he couldn't break the habit. 

The last time he'd been in this neighborhood was before leaving for the war. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The playground where he and his sister Tatiana used to play with other kids was full of weeds and in ruins. The buildings were decaying as well, and overall the state of abandonment was pronounced. 

A small, old lady sweeping the entrance to the block greeted him rather affectionately. He was quick to recognize Mrs. Vera. She'd lived there ever since he had memory and worked in one of the many textile factories of the city. 

Her back was hunched as she supported her weight on the broom. "I'm so glad you're back, Volodya. Your mother told me you'd left for Chechnya and I feared something might have happened to you there."

She couldn't even imagine... 

It was a sore topic for Vladimir and it didn't help the woman teared up at the memory of her grandson, who had died in the brutal siege of Grozny.

"Tolya was about your age. I'm sure you could have been good friends."

Trying not to be insensitive at her loss, he just gave her his condolences and some comforting words. Then excused himself and climbed the stairs, listening to the quiet sobs of the old woman.

Perhaps he should have tried harder. Perhaps he should have been more sympathetic for her sorrow but, honestly, nothing he said would bring her grandson back. 

"At least your mother still has you."

Did she really? 

After reaching his mother's apartment, Vladimir knocked on the worn door and waited. 

Loud barking echoed from the other side and he had to suppress a smile. Nobody was home but thankfully the spare key he had still worked.

Their old samoyed bared its teeth at him as soon as he opened the door, ready to attack. What a good boy.

"Igor!"

At the sound of his voice, the dog stopped and tilted his head in confusion. When Igor finally recognized him, he was a puppy all over again— whining and jumping around his master, euphoric to see him after such a long time.

"Did you miss me, Gorya?"

Igor whined some more and placed his paws in his chest, as if trying to embrace him. Or jump into his arms like the big baby he was. 

"So did I, boy. Where's _mama?_ "

Nowhere to be found.

Well, bad luck. He had hoped she'd be home during the weekend but maybe she went to see Tatiana. No matter. Vladimir didn't plan on staying for too long either way.

He fed Igor some canned food he'd bought. Poor old puppy was starving. His once beautiful snowy fur was dirty and matted, not to mention he was scrawny.

"Enjoy."

With Igor too busy devouring his dinner, Vladimir took a look around the apartment. Things were pretty much the same since his last visit. The same faded carpets hung on the walls, the wallpaper was coming off in some places and the bedroom he used to share with Tanya still had some of his belongings as a kid. He still remembered her jokes about how fortunate for her he was admitted into the _suvorov,_ so she could have the bedroom all to herself.

The living room had the same old family pictures hanging on the walls. There was Tanya as a Young Pioneer in one of her many camp travels. Him as a cadet of the _suvorov._ His father and mother in their wedding. Tanya and him on the seashores of Lithuania, building a sand castle when they were little kids. _Dedushka_ and _babushka_ at the summer dacha with their grandchildren. Little Igor in the banks of the Kharinka when he was a puppy. Tanya smiling brightly during her graduation as a school teacher. Of course, _mama_ couldn't forget to hang a picture of him during his graduation at the Frunze academy, a brand-new captain in the airborne forces. The newest addition was a picture of his little nephew, Ivan.

"He looks more and more like _papa_ each day _,_ " Vladimir said fondly, causing Igor to whine at the reminder of his former master. "I know, I know. I miss him, too."

His mismatched eyes lingered on the portrait of his old man, and Vladimir wondered what would he say if he saw him now. His stern expression spoke of tenacity and strength, always unflinching and unyielding, yet his weary gaze was worn by years of endless war. It was said that a soldier never truly left the battlefield. Physically, he might not be there anymore but his soul remained behind, along with his fallen brothers that wandered those lands stained in blood. Day by day, he would relive those memories until nothing else was left, and only death would free him. Only then would he see the end. 

The key turned inside the lock, and Igor was off to greet the pale, enervated woman that walked inside.

She was bewildered at the sight of him, perhaps he'd changed that much, yet it took her but a moment to recognize the excuse of a man that was her son.

"Volodya?"

She didn't expect to see him.

He didn't expect to be here.

" _Mama…_ "

Rushing to him, she enveloped him in a tight hug— as if she would never get to do it again— laughing amid tears. "You're here, my dear son! Where have you been? I tried to contact you several times but couldn't find you."

He wrapped his arms around her, taking in her fragile form, heart aching at the sorrow that came over him. How could he have done this to her? 

"I've been busy, that is all. Sorry for the trouble," he said quietly. 

When he was not busy murdering people, he was drowning in alcohol in his apartment or making plans for his next assignment. He couldn't even make time for his poor mother. What a fine son he was. 

"I was worried about you. We haven't seen hide nor hair from you since you left for Chechnya. I even went to the garrison to speak with your commanding officer but he said that you'd been transferred to the base in Balashikha. Why did you never tell me?"

He'd never told his mother he was in the special forces. It was something not even his own family was supposed to know. 

"I couldn't, _mama_."

She sighed and nodded in understanding, reluctantly parting from his embrace. "I know it's your job but that won't stop me from worrying. I lost your father in Afghanistan and I wouldn't be able to bear the pain of losing you, too."

He knew she was devastated, just like Tanya. Like he'd been even if he never showed it.

"Boys don't cry, Volodya," _papa_ said, after telling them he would be sent to a faraway place called Ethiopia, to help its people protect their land from invaders. "A man must always be strong for his family and the motherland. You have to be, for _mama_ and Tanya, when I'm not here, understand?

And then came Afghanistan. He was just a kid at the time. Of the five years his father was away, he only saw him twice and he never blamed him or hated him for that. Papa was fulfilling his duty. He was fighting for his homeland, he was helping build a better future for the Afghani. The Soviet military assisted people by building homes, roads, schools and hospitals for them and backed up the government against the insurgents in a conflict that extended for almost a decade. 

Until Vladimir understood that the sacrifices of his father and many other men weren't wanted, needed nor honored. 

He was proud of his old man, he'd always been. He knew that as a soldier, his father was willing to die for Russia, yet at the same time Vladimir dreaded the moment an officer would approach him and break the bad news. Nobody wanted to lose a father, a brother or a son to war. Nobody wanted to be told they'd never see their loved ones again, nobody was actually prepared to accept their last words were a letter that they'd kept on them just in case the worst outcome possible happened. He'd seen other cadets at the _suvorov_ go through that harrowing experience, and despite his desperate attempt to keep the thought out of his mind he'd always feared that one day it would be his turn.

Maybe it was better that his father died. Most people didn't hold veterans of the Afghan war in high regard, nor those of the Chechen war. In many ways, it had been styled as the Soviet Vietnam and it was a conflict that many were comfortable to pretend never took place. Except for those that still lived traumatized by it.

"I know it must have been terrible for you back there, Volodya. I know it's the last thing you want to talk about but, remember, we're your family. We're here to support you."

It was thoughtful of them but they would never understand. He'd never been to share his turmoils or hardships, he'd never once even mentioned so much as a small complaint for his situation and kept any troubles to himself. Whenever he sent letters from Chechnya, he always told _mama_ everything was fine, that he was with his men and she had nothing to worry about.

But she knew better than believing in his lies when he said he was well fed and rested. She knew he was not fine and that he only wrote those things so she wouldn't be concerned.

He'd gone hungry and cold; he'd been losing sleep for months, and there were times he no longer knew if he was awake or if it all was just a never-ending nightmare; he'd crawled through dirt and blood and guts— the stench of decomposing bodies, charred flesh and gunpowder clinging onto him until it was all he could smell day and night. The only reason he even started smoking was so he wouldn't have to breathe into that shit anymore.

Some days he was more a beast than a man, or maybe a beast in the shape of a man. When exposed to brutality and anger long enough, with your only choices being die or fight, it was easy to give free rein to the most primal instincts and go down a rabbit hole from which there would be no escape. It sounded strange, contradictory to those blissfully ignorant of the horrors of the world, but any remote semblance of humanity had to be forsaken if one wished to stay sane in the midst of this lunacy— otherwise you would be left broken.

As commander he had to push aside any hindrance that might have prevented him from being an effective leader or he risked the lives of his teammates and the mission as a whole. His enemies were not human, they couldn't be, he reasoned. They showed no mercy and if he stopped for a moment to think they had families or people that would mourn for them, then he might as well have sentenced his own men to die. It was cruel, indeed, but such was the way of war. 

_Zachistka_ after another, he hunted the insurgents and their collaborators down. He carried out his orders and did what he was supposed to do for Russia. Those traitors deserved to die and his mission was to wipe them out. But _mama_ couldn't know about the things that happened back there. No, it would probably break her heart to see what he'd become.

"I know, _mama…_ "

"I missed you so much, Vova. Will you be staying for a few days with me?"

If only... 

He missed home, he missed his family, but he was a coward and couldn't bring himself to look his _mama_ in the eye and pretend that nothing had changed— that everything was the same.

"I can't. Actually, I'm here to say goodbye."

Her smile dropped instantly. "Where are you going?"

He didn't reply.

"Will you come back?"

Would he? He didn't know.

But a lie wouldn't hurt.

"Yes, don't worry."

"Have something to eat before you go, at least." She held his cheek and studied his features, maybe trying to find the proud and imposing young man he'd once been. And he noticed his _mama_ had aged in the time he was gone, wondering if he would return— fearing he never would, like _papa_. "You look skinny."

He wanted to say no but it was futile to argue with her. Maybe he would just humor her.

And so he found himself sitting in the kitchen, picking at a plate of leftover _plov_ with a few scraps of meat and a generous spoonful of mayonnaise.

A luxury to eat, without a doubt, but he barely could swallow a bite. It's not like he was complaining. He had eaten some disgusting things before, from snakes to bugs and everything in between, so he wasn't very picky with his meals— and _mama_ 's food had always been the best, next to _babushka_ 's. But it bothered him that she was having a difficult time getting by, while he was throwing away his money, and it made him feel guilty for having been so thoughtless.

_Mama_ sat by his side with a cup of tea and Vladimir tried to steer the conversation away from him before she made any questions.

"How's Tanya?"

"Working hard, as always. I visited her today and I would have stayed but, you know, big puppy over here was going to cry all night long."

Offended by that statement, Igor huffed from his place by Vladimir's feet.

"And Vanya?"

"He's fine, growing up like any other kid."

There was sadness in her eyes, in spite of her smile.

"She's not doing well, isn't she?"

With a painful sigh, _mama_ lowered her gaze. "As well as she can be with a job that hasn't paid in months and a child to support. She's barely making ends meet, and heaven forbid anyone gets sick because there's no money for medicine The school gave her bottles of vodka as compensation, can you believe that? What are she and the other teachers supposed to do, eh? Open liquor stores at home? Every time I see your poor sister, her eyes are all puffy and red from crying so much. Her husband is in pretty much the same situation. I swear to God if he starts drinking, I'll make sure he won't be seeing Tanya or Vanya for a very long time."

"Why even bother with work anymore?"

"They have hope the situation will improve, Volodya. It's the only thing they hold onto."

He scoffed. "Things won't get better, _mama_."

"Don't say that. We've been to hell and back so we can make it through this, too."

Foolish optimism or admirable fortitude? He couldn't say, but he wouldn't judge her either.

"Fortunately the factory where I work hasn't closed down. And though I don't see a ruble from them anymore, at least they give me some fabrics. I can sew some clothest that Vanya can wear or that we can exchange for groceries, and we also grow some vegetables at the dacha—"

" _Mama,_ excuse me, but I have to go."

He couldn't stand it. He just couldn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"So soon? Why don't you stay for a little while? Tanya would love to see you. She's been so worried about you..."

"Maybe some other time."

"Are you going back to Chechnya?"

He paused, debating whether to tell her the truth or not.

It was no use. She would find out sooner or later.

"I'm not in the VDV anymore."

The news shocked her. "What? Why?"

"Please, don't ask."

"Are you in trouble? What will you do now?"

It was better she didn't know. He couldn't imagine she would be thrilled her son did killing contracts and other questionable jobs.

"You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine."

Well, hard to know but what else could he say? _Mama, maybe I'll be at the bottom of a river, maybe chopped to pieces in some dumpster, maybe shot dead in the middle of the street. Here's some money for your troubles. Stay away from me from now on._

"I only came to give you this."

He grabbed the backpack sitting on a spare chair and placed it in front of her.

It was probably time he left already.

But things were never easy when a woman was involved. 

"Where did you get all this money?" Her eyes were wide as saucers as she stared dumbfounded at the several stacks of dollars squeezed inside.

The surprises never ended with him.

"Don't ask, _mama_. Just take it."

"Don't tell me you've joined a band of criminals like all those veterans!"

His jaw clenched at the reminder.

"And what if I did? Does it even matter now?"

"What would your father think, your grandfather?!"

That he was a failure, a shame to this family. He had no doubts about it.

"They're not here. The dead don't starve or want for anything."

"This is blood money, Volodya. Someone died because of this! Who did you kill? Whose family did you destroy?!" 

And then he snapped.

"Would you rather Tanya whored herself to feed her son? Or that Vanya got sick because he has no warm clothes? Understand, _mama,_ the world we knew is gone. Either we adapt or we die. We're on our own now, no one is going to help us!"

_Mama_ was in tears and he knew he had disappointed her, that he had hurt her. Honestly, what did he expect? Of course she would want to know where did he get so much money from and his silence would immediately give him away. She wasn't stupid. And he felt like an idiot. 

"Where did I go wrong? Can you ever forgive me, Volodya? This is all my fault."

Her fault? No. This was his own doing. These were his own choices. He wouldn't let her take that away from him. When everything was going to hell, he needed to know that at least he had some form of control over his life— even if he made terrible decisions.

Crouching in front of her, he held her bony hands in his and then gently wiped her tears away. The years hadn't been kind to her, ever since _papa_ was gone, and knowing that he was now the cause of her suffering made him want to rip his heart out. It would have made all so much more easy for him. 

"You always were a wonderful mother, an excellent wife, an outstanding woman. The only force keeping this family together through thick and thin is you and you have my deepest respect and admiration, but don't take responsibility for what I do. I'm not a child anymore."

At his words, she broke into a new fit of sobs and buried her face in her trembling hands. She had always tried to make good people out of her children, she'd always wanted them to be decent members of society. It must have been heartbreaking for her to know that her wonderful son, her pride, her dear Volodya, was nothing but a murderer trading blood for money. A filthy mercenary that would kill whoever he was told for a handful of dollars.

How could he look her in the eye? How dared he?

In spite of this, part of him hoped she would still accept him, even if he was no longer that child she loved so much.

_"Mama,_ hate me, disown me, curse me, but I beg you: think about Tanya, think of your grandson. Don't feel bad for some lowlife whose death was a favor to this country. I assure you, Russia is a better place now."

A small solace for her, perhaps. A way to justify his actions.

It was what she needed. Not him.

He didn't regret what he did. Not by a long shot.

He'd eliminated enough enemies in his life that aversion, or whatever negative emotions one might feel, whatever guilt would keep others awake at night, became just a distant reminiscence— a voice in his mind he snuffed out for good. Desensitization was a useful defense mechanism, after all. He couldn't even remember what it was like killing someone for the first time nor her dwelled too much on it.

"You always have words to convince me, Volodya," she said, tears spent as his rationale began to sink in. No matter how hard she tried to do the right thing, no matter how tirelessly she worked to make ends meet and provide for her family, in the end honesty didn't put bread to the table nor clothes on their backs. Not in this new world of kleptocrats, killers and whores.

"Only because you know they're true."

And she proved to him a mother could love her children, no matter how terrible, despicable and cruel they were.

All she needed to do was closing her eyes to the truth.

* * *

Hello Mother... I am writing to you again   
Hello Mother... I am fine  
All is good, the sun's shining down on me  
And there is fog in the mountains  
  
She cannot know how we're wandering through the hills  
She cannot know how demanding it can be  
Our young years pass here  
In the Caucasus, where there is war  
  
To the noise and explosion of grenades, our detachment strides  
And shooting is heard far in the mountains  
To the noise and explosion of grenades, tracers are unloading  
And from the gap the whole earth burns  
With choppers overhead, we're moving on ahead  
And we will not retreat  
  
Young we came here  
To the Caucasus, where there is war now  
I don't forget the harsh nights  
And the faces of fallen friends  
  
Demobilization came, here I am back home  
Hello mom, I'm back, I'm alive  
I looked my mother in the eye  
After all this time, she's grown old  
  
But at night I hear the noise of grenades again  
I wake up, remember all the guys  
And pour myself a glass of wine  
For all the friends who stayed in the war  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to think that Vladimir was an asshole for no reason until I realized that he belonged to an alienated generation of angry people torn by war, crime, and disillusion. In the end, he may be a monster the system helped create.
> 
> I probably butchered Vladimir's character and made all this more dramatic than it needed to be. This guy turned out to be an emo in my story. An angry and dangerous emo, that is. 
> 
> Yea, no Rea-tan yet but I need to do the build-up into their future relationship. And I don't want to make Volodya too much of an s.o.b.(though he is) because I wanna try out something.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos! Thanks to Almesiva! Xoxo, ILU 💕💕💕


	3. iii. the sins of a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates. I had a sudden burst of inspiration and finished this chapter more or less fast (if you consider two weeks to be quick). Next one is underway as I post this.
> 
> **indigenous ruin** left a comment and recommended me to watch Брат (Brother), a Russian movie about a man who returns from the war in Chechnya. Excellent recommendation! Found it on YouTube and also had the chance to watch Brother 2 in English not long ago. I cannot thank you enough, both were amazing movies and a great source of inspiration. Bless you ♥♥♥
> 
> Before you read, I'd like to remind everyone that history is far more complex than what is exposed in here. I don’t share the views purported by the characters nor do they voice my opinion. I’m only writing a fic for entertainment purposes.

It was funny, in an ironic way. Maybe even hilarious. 

From a respectable captain in the VDV, a _spetsnaz_ in one of the most elite units, he went to a mobster— an outcast, the refuse of society. A criminal wanted by the law. 

If he tried hard enough, he could pretend not much had changed; he still killed people and got paid for it. The circumstances were different, but in essence his activities remained relatively the same. Of course, it was an awful oversimplification and a disgrace for a man who had once served his country unconditionally. There were no noble ideals to drive him and no higher purpose, nothing to believe in and nothing to fight for anymore.

All his childhood, he grew up believing that he would help build the future of the socialist paradise they’d been promised— a place where all would live in peace, united as friends. A place without the taint of capitalist warmongers that sought to enslave and destroy other nations. 

How was he supposed to feel when told that he’d been living in a lie all these years, that they’d been on the wrong side of history? What was there left when his beliefs had been destroyed, and all his core values suddenly meant nothing in this new world of cynical materialism, where every man was out for himself, where absolutely nothing mattered except money. Even he was growing jaded and disaffected, repulsed at himself and what he'd become. 

In the past he fought for ideals, to protect the homeland— or so he was told. Nowadays he would kill for anyone who was willing to pay his price. Regardless of the reasons, someone was bound to die by his hand. 

For someone like him, who had been groomed into the military life from a young age (and it was all he'd ever known), to suddenly find himself adrift was nothing short of alienating. There were times he even missed Chechnya, maybe because a part of his youth remained there. If he’d told that to anyone who never experienced what he did, they would have thought he was insane. No one in their right mind could look back and say they missed that hellhole. 

Some would say he was losing it, but they could never understand what it felt like. Chechnya was hell on earth, he wasn't that delusional to deny it— and there wasn't a single day he wouldn't miss his family or longed to go home— but at least he knew what to expect. Back there he was needed, he knew his purpose, what he was meant to do, who he was. He was a soldier of Russia and he would give his life for the homeland in a heartbeat. There was no question about that. 

Nobody needed him here.

He was a soldier no more.

He was barely a man.

A soulless carcass. 

Now he understood his father all those times he wanted to go back to the fight. _Papa_ rarely talked about his experiences, at least never the bad parts. They were just small sacrifices for the glory of the motherland. A soldier should never complain about his duty, a soldier had to be ready to shoulder the burden for everyone else. A soldier was meant to protect his people and country. 

But Vladimir was a soldier no more. 

He wasn't proud of what he'd become, but there were no options left for him. And modesty aside, he was good at what he did. At least, his customers were always satisfied with the results. The same couldn't be said for his victims, or anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. Tough luck, he guessed. 

His new lifestyle didn't really allow him to settle down, like he’d once wanted to. _Mama_ had always nagged him that she wanted grandkids, but he preferred to evade such obligations. He didn't want to have to worry about them. 

He no longer had a place to call home. There were times he woke up and didn't know where he was, after changing locations so often. His belongings were few, and it allowed him to pack in a moment's notice. If he needed to, he could leave at any time without thinking twice. There was nothing and no one holding him back. 

However, sometimes it could get lonely for him. Women were something he avoided just as much as he sought, and though he knew better than getting attached to someone, he couldn't help it. The nights were long and his thoughts didn't make for enjoyable company when he was alone.

There were not many lovers he cared to remember, but a particular name stood out in his memories. 

_Sofia_.

It was probably the first intense relationship he’d ever had, the first time he allowed himself to feel so vehemently for anyone. Though short-lived, their time together had meant more than he would ever dare to admit. 

Sofia Morozova was a woman older than him, past her forties against his mid-twenties. He couldn't imagine his mother would have been thrilled with his choice of partner. Sofia was too old for him, _mama_ would argue, too old to give him any children… old enough to be his own mother even. Worse, she was already married to someone else, though her husband was an alcoholic good for nothing who beat her and lived off her money. 

Even if _mama_ didn’t approve, Vladimir didn’t care. Sofia was the one he needed, and he was in love with her. 

They crossed paths when she was driving a freight tram in Moscow. It was purely coincidental. He'd been hired to eliminate a mob boss running operations in a marketplace, recently brought under his control, where the fool usually took strolls to supervise his ‘territory’. Though Vladimir had made all necessary preparations, studied his target and the market surroundings, planned his escape route in advance, and slipped away from the commotion before anyone could even realize what had happened, he didn't anticipate that his hirer would try to cheat him out of his money. It was a careless mistake that almost cost him his life. 

It was the best mistake he'd ever made, too.

It wasn’t the first time he struck a deal with that customer, and previous assignments had gone smoothly. However, Vladimir’s death sentence had been rising the price for that wet job since the target had tight security, and preparations would take some time. He would have thought it was a reasonable agreement, but apparently he’d forgotten that in this line of work nobody was your friend. Not even your clients. 

Oleg could have said no and moved on. Vladimir actually didn’t care if someone else took care of the job, but if he was going to do it then he would make sure to receive good compensation for risking his neck.

He was paid half of the cash upfront, as usual, and he’d receive the other half when the target was eliminated. That was what he’d been promised, at least. Except that Oleg never intended to keep his word. 

It’d been close to going horribly wrong. Those bastards had almost caught up to him during his escape, and he knew there was no easy way to lose them on the streets. So when Vladimir saw the freight tram passing by, he didn't think twice about jumping in it. His pursuers gave chase for a while, but they were unable to keep up, and he even managed to down one of them with a few rounds.

Safe for the moment, he managed to heave a sigh of relief before taking notice of the warm dampness that permeated through his shirt and sweater. His hand brushed against the side of his abdomen.

And when he saw the dark blood staining his fingers he knew that he was screwed up.

* * *

The woman, although a bit dazed and scared, had tried to get him some help but he was having none of that.

He didn't want to go to the hospital. They would start asking questions. They'd get a hold of the _militsiya_ and Vladimir knew perfectly well that if any crime boss was able to prosper under harsh conditions, it wasn't only thanks to how much manpower he had, or how effective at wiping out the competition he was, but how many people he could buy off to keep his logistics running smooth and provide him with valuable information. Meaning that to stay in business, he needed corrupt officials who were willing to turn a blind eye on his illicit activities.

Therefore, it was only a matter of time before someone tipped off Oleg on his whereabouts.

What he most feared was getting his family involved. That was something he couldn’t allow to happen. Vladimir would never forgive himself if something bad happened to them because of him. 

What he most feared was getting his family involved. That was something he couldn't allow to happen. So with no one else to rely on, he turned to Sofia. At times, he couldn't believe he had to trust in the kindness of a total stranger, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Besides, he was willing to pay her good money if she shut her mouth and looked after him.

In all honesty, he would have died if not for her.

She would be getting into deep trouble, there was no doubt about it. Hell, she was already in danger just by helping someone like him. And though the woman had weighed the risks she would be taking with him, and knew things could get ugly, her economic struggles seemed to be far more pressing so she decided he was worth the trouble after all.

Sofia had phoned her boss and told him that she was sorry for the short notice, but she wouldn't be able to work for a while. An emergency arose and she had to look after a sick relative, who had no one else but her. That was her sorry excuse but, surprisingly, it worked.

The woman only knew the basics about medical care, so she was intimidated by the difficult task that lay ahead. This wasn't a mere scrape or minor injury she was dealing with. It was a gunshot. However, Vladimir had his fair share of field medical training so he was more or less confident about pulling through this. Luckily, no vital organs seemed to be affected, so that increased his probabilities of surviving.

She bought the supplies he'd listed quickly, and prepared the material as per his indications. Under his guidance, she performed decently. Sofia was a fast learner and also very skilled. She could have been a nurse or a doctor, he once complimented, but she simply shrugged and said that could have been the case, had she not decided to skip university to get married. A terrible decision she later regretted.

He had to admit he didn't trust her, at first. He was half expecting her to turn him in to the authorities, but to his surprise she knew how to keep a secret. She could have easily robbed him in his sleep, like several women had done before, and left him to die in that room. Everyone would have been none the wiser as to what happened to him.

Vladimir didn't know what excuses she gave her husband, but she stayed by his side and nursed him back to health. He reckoned the drunkard didn't care where the money came from, so long as he could get wasted whenever he pleased.

And the more time they spent together, the more dependent on her he became. It was stupid, but he was worried about her well-being. It almost terrified him that she might not return the next day. She always did, but that didn’t mean he was any more at ease.

He wasn’t exactly a man she could be friends with. Someone like him didn’t deserve friends, either way. And yet she wanted to know more about him. More than it was actually recommendable or safe to.

Even if he didn't tell her much, Sofia inferred that he'd been a soldier. The tattoos on his body gave it away, he couldn’t hide it even if he wanted to. The round dome of a parachute and skull on his arm, the motto of the VDV, his blood type inscribed, and the wolf head of his former unit, were undoubtedly a remainder of who he used to be. 

Many like him had winded up in a life of crime, from veterans of Afghanistan, Georgia, Abkhazia, Tajikistan, to Chechnya. They found it hard to cope and couldn’t adapt to life at home, neither found many opportunities to get by. He didn’t enjoy any benefits from having served in the armed forces, ever since being forced to opt for a discharge after all the grief the UN put him through. Then again, many others were in the same situation as well, with no pensions, no housing, and unable to find stable jobs. People were reticent and scared about employing men traumatized by war. They were no longer regarded as heroes and protectors of the homeland, but a burden on society they would be happy to ignore and forget.

He didn’t want to stay at _mama_ ’s place. She had enough problems as it was, and it would shame him if he even had to ask for her help. Vladimir knew she would never deny him a roof over his head or food, but he could never accept it. He was supposed to be the one making sure his mother and sister didn’t have to want for anything, or else what good he was for? He would have failed as a son, as a brother, and as a man. His father would never forgive him.

Surely, _papa_ would understand his desperate measures.

At least he could sleep every night knowing that they had the means to be well-off. If anything, little Vanya didn't have to go cold during winter. Too bad he didn't get to see the kid often. During his last visit, _mama_ had showed him some pictures and his nephew had grown a lot in these past years. Vladimir could still remember when he held baby Vanya in his arms for the first time, and now the child was a happy-go-lucky toddler.

_Mama_ had asked him numerous times when he was going to find himself a nice girl to start a family, but he’d always thought it was better to wait and make the right choice. And to that she always answered “marry first, Volodya, and love will eventually come”.

Maybe he'd once entertained the idea of settling down, but one thing or another always set him back. First, the years stationed in East Berlin right after his graduation from the military academy, sent to assist in the withdrawal of troops from Germany after the reunification, which didn't leave him much time to find a partner. It wouldn't be right to fraternize with women at his base, and he didn't have much contact with German girls, either. Not that he was eager to do it, anyways. Eastern Germans didn't have warm and friendly feelings for the Russians, and since the fall of The Wall (an event that showed how utterly and despairingly weak the USSR had become), their animosity had only served to make him even more skeptical about any future relations with the West.

Not long after returning from East Germany, deeply disturbed by Moscow's inaction as Russian influence across Europe dwindled— and with a bitter aftertaste for their withdrawal which would pave the way for NATO's expansion— the war in Chechnya broke out.

_Dedushka_ used to tell him, when he was a boy still moping _papa_ 's absence and reading his letters from Afghanistan, that he should feel proud because dad was a hero and he died like one.

It was what any soldier should aspire to. 

Grandpa said that war made you a real man. Only a real man could stare into death's eyes, realize how inescapable she was and still not fear the end. Only a real man could find the strength, even when there was none left, to keep fighting for his land and everything he loved. Because only at the verge of losing it all could he understand how important it was.

Now he had to lie to himself that he abhorred his time in Chechnya, when in truth it was the most liberating and eye-opening experience of a lifetime. He couldn't admit it to his family, however. They’d suffered in wait, hoping and praying each day that he was still alive. It wouldn't be right to tell them that he was happily hunting rebels in the villages and mountains, blowing their brains out and tearing them apart as revenge for what they’d done to his comrades. 

Those filthy Chechens, with the help of Ukrainian nationalists, the Arab Mujahideen (and of course, western support), tortured and beheaded Russian prisoners, blew them to pieces with RPGs, urinated on their corpses and humiliated them in any way they could. They were only young boys, barely out of training, sent to die by an incompetent government and served as cannon fodder by useless commanders, who wouldn't know the first thing about leading the armed forces. 

After storming Grozny, his mission was mopping up those villages from rebels and their collaborators. He killed many, and he did it with no shred of compassion. Why should he feel sorry for them when the blood of his brothers was on their hands?

His company didn't take prisoners. Theoretically, they were to take rebels to the police station so they could be jailed and then judged. Why bother when you could carry out the sentence right there? Painfully and slowly, the payback they deserved. Many would say it was barbaric, but it was only justice being delivered— revenge that would bring peace to his fallen comrades. 

The world dared judge him for his actions, when the only language that these scumbags understood was that of violence. If they could get away with torturing Russian soldiers, why couldn't they do the same? Who criticized or investigated the opposing side for their war crimes? Or was it that the Chechen's _noble_ struggle for "freedom" automatically erased their sins? Where was the West to demand for human rights when non-Chechens were being expelled or exterminated, long before the war even started? When Russians had to flee Chechnya after continuous threats, degradation, and episodes of violence? Where were they when Russian girls were kidnapped and raped, when entire families were murdered in their apartments, and their corpses thrown out the windows in order to steal their property? Who even talked about rebels executing civilians and using them as human shields? Oddly enough, the international community was quiet and indifferent to their plight. 

_“Russians, don’t leave. We need slaves and prostitutes,”_ read an infamous phrase, written at the entrance of Grozny. 

And he hadn't been able to get it out of his head, since then. 

Where were the leaders of Russia when their own people sent open letters, begging for help? 

The president could care less about what happened to them. He and the vice president were more concerned about who held power at the Kremlin, in the midst of a constitutional crisis that placed the country in the brink of a civil war. After persistent disputes with the parliament, which strongly opposed Yeltsin's economic reforms and sought to impeach him, he launched an offensive and declared that the congress and Supreme Soviet were dissolved, arguing that it would clear the path for a faster transition to a market economy. Of course, he was enthusiastically backed by western powers— especially the US under Bill Clinton, for whom he'd become a lapdog— and the emergent oligarchs of the new Russian Federation, in a hurry to protect their own economic interests. 

And when people took to the streets to protest for their current living conditions, surrounding the parliament building to defend it, they perished during confrontations with forces loyal to Yeltsin.

The acclaimed champion and defender of democracy and freedom… 

Did the west care about it? Of course they didn't. The same way they didn't care what happened to his people in Chechnya. Yet they had the gall to point their fingers at him and call him murderer, while at the same time praising the rebels for their _admirable_ fight in spite of their ruthless actions.

The astounding levels of hypocrisy sickened him.

Geneva Convention? Chechens didn't know nor care about that. Only cruelty and brutality would get him somewhere, and if he had to use unsavory means against his enemies he wouldn’t think twice. Vladimir wasn’t scared of becoming a monster, if that was what it took to win this war.

But _mama_ could never know about his sins. The jovial and proud image of her dear son waving goodbye at her from the departing bus, on that cold December day, was still etched on her mind. She still remembered her sweet and innocent Volodya, who clung to her with tears in his eyes every time he was hurt or scared. Tanya used to make fun of him and called him crybaby because, out of the two, he'd always been the most demanding and emotionally attached.

_Mama_ would be terrified if she knew the truth about him. If she saw him for what he really was. 

That was why he would never talk about Chechnya with her, or Tanya or Sofia. What could he say to them, either way? That in truth he didn't regret any of the atrocities he committed, and if given the choice he would do it all over again? The only remorse in his mind was failing to bring home the men that perished under his command, but it was useless dwelling on such thoughts.

"What will you do when you recover?" 

"I'll take care of some business and then be on my way." 

More precisely, make sure Oleg and his men bit the dust.

"Where to?"

He threw a suspicious look her way. "Why do you want to know?"

"I just wonder if you're going to be okay."

He reached for the pack of cigarettes sitting next to his bed, put one in his mouth and fiddled with the lighter for a moment or two. Not once did he bother to answer. He wasn't in any obligation to do so. 

Sofia sighed. "You shouldn't smoke so much. It's terrible for your health." 

Despite his wound and her endless tirades, he still couldn't quit smoking. 

"Jesus, stop acting like you're my mother," Vladimir scoffed as soon as he took a drag, but the bad-timed inhalation left him choking and gasping for breath. 

He winced at the pain in his side, and cursed through gritted teeth. Sofia just gave him that look of reproach, her hazel eyes narrowing as she pursed her lips.

"You're a brat, you know that? Why do I even bother with you?"

"Listen, woman, we have a deal, alright? Just do what you're told and try to mind your own business," he spat, already fed up with her nagging. 

From the neglected way he lived, to the mess in his apartment, and his dreadful habits. He hated it when she pestered and criticized him, when she constantly reminded him that he used to be someone better— someone worthy. 

But since she entered his life, he felt like he had a place to call home. A gentle hand rested on his forehead when he slept. It made him feel safe, that everything was going to be alright, just like all those times he got sick and _mama_ was by his side. For the first time in months, he had a tidy place to sleep and clean fresh clothes.

For the first time, his apartment looked like it was inhabitable rather than no-man's-land. It was embarrassing to him. He'd always been neat and orderly, never had been one for sloppiness. This wasn't like him, this wasn't him, and every time he looked at the mirror he couldn't even recognize himself anymore. 

He hadn't shaved or cut his hair in what seemed to be ages, but in the presence of that woman he stopped neglecting his appearance. He hadn't eaten a homemade meal in months— he could never be bothered to— but Sofia made sure he was properly fed to recover well. She was surprised to find he was a young man, at all, with that haggard look he sported after so many nights wasting himself to oblivion.

His mood saw a significant improvement in the following days, he'd put on some much needed weight, and he'd even stopped drinking for the sake of being in his best behavior around her. Though Sofia was annoying at times, he had to admit she changed his life for the better and he didn't want to give her reasons to leave. 

He didn't want to be alone again. 

Locks of reddish brown hair framed her worn-out face, as she tilted her head and looked at him wistfully. It seemed as if she was nostalgic for days gone, as if she were searching his face for something she had lost. 

It made him curious, but also uncomfortable.

"What?" he grumbled, taking a swift drag and flicking off the ashes in the metal ashtray next to him. 

She remained silent, as if unsure of what to say— or doubtful about whether she should even say something. 

After a while, Sofia smiled a broken smile and shook her head. "Nothing. You just remind me of my son. He was a bit younger than you."

" _Was_?" Vladimir arched an eyebrow, somewhat puzzled by her reply.

He should have known the answer to that. He should have known it when her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she was consciously trying to keep her voice from trembling. 

_He was young and fearless, but even if he thought that he was invincible he was still my baby. From the day he was born, I always protected him and looked after him._ _But I couldn't shield him from the new world that lurked outside, that attractive place of seductive and dangerous wonders._

_Despite my advice, he befriended the wrong people. I tried to make him see reason, I tried to warn him, but he always said that I shouldn't worry so much about him. Nothing could hurt him, nothing could deter him. He was young and freedom was within his reach._

_One evening he told me "I'm going out with friends, see you later mama." I prayed that he would return home safely, but the days passed and he never came back._

_The militsiya wouldn't do anything. They said he was an adult, so he probably left home. Missing people weren't a novelty and they had enough to deal with as it was. They would look into it but didn't promise anything._

_Until one day they were at my door, asking me to go to the morgue to identify the body of a man that fitted the description I gave._ _My husband was drunk out of his mind that day, so that left me alone to deal with the possibility that our child… our only child could be gone._

_Do you know what it feels like to be told that someone you love with all your heart might be dead? I wanted to disappear right then, but part of me tried to hold onto the hope that it could be a mistake.  
_

_I was in denial. I couldn't accept it... I didn't want to. I thought I would die right then, I wanted to so I wouldn't have to feel like I was being torn apart from the inside.  
_

_And I'll never forget what I saw. My dear Vasya… face completely disfigured, lying naked in that cold steel table. I still don't know how I looked at him and managed to say "that's my little boy"._

_And my little boy was gone._

"Sorry about that," he droned, almost indifferently, trying to distance himself as much as he could from the moment. "It happens, sometimes."

He didn't care. He shouldn't have to. It wasn't his problem, it didn't involve him.

But he fleetingly wondered what if _mama_ was in her place… 

"You're too young to waste your life away like this. Don't you have a family waiting for you? A mother that you miss?" 

This time, he fell silent and stared off at the wall, contemplating her words.

And oh did they struck home.

"More than anything in the world…" he mumbled, feeling the knot in his throat. 

He had no right to cry. 

If he did, he would break down and give in to the dream of going home at long last. Of seeing _mama_ and being a carefree child all over again in her arms.

"Then why do you make her suffer like this? Why don't you go back to her and leave all this behind?"

It wasn't that easy. 

If it were, he wouldn't be so scared. 

"You don't understand. I can't go back, after all I've done. I can't..."

His mother didn't deserve a waste of a human being as her son.

And sooner or later his past would catch up to him.

White snow, gray ice  
On the cracked earth…  
Like a patchwork quilt upon it…  
There’s a city on a loop in the road,  
And above the city there are clouds drifting,  
Hiding the heavenly light,  
And above the city there’s a yellow haze,  
The city, for two thousand years  
Lived under the light of a star  
Called the Sun…

And for two thousand years there was war,  
War with no particular reason,  
War is a young business,  
Like medicine against wrinkles.  
There’s red, red blood,  
After an hour, it was absorbed into the ground,  
After two, there were flowers and grass,  
After three, the earth lived again,  
And it was warmed by the rays of a star  
Called the Sun…

And we know, that it’s always been so,  
That Fate loves the one  
Who lives by his own rules,  
The one who dies young…  
He doesn’t remember the words “yes” or “no”,  
He doesn’t remember ranks nor names,  
And he could reach the stars,  
Not realizing that it was a dream,  
As he falls down dead, burned by a star  
Named the Sun…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already working on the next update, so hopefully I can get it done soon! :D thank you so much for reading! ♥♥♥
> 
> Rea-tan will make an appearance in the next few chapters. This is a Vladimir-centric fic, and it's taking me a bit longer than usual to introduce the Reader. It's the first time, I think, that I'm trying to shift the perspective away from her. All this setup is for character development purposes :'v

**Author's Note:**

> Let's hope I can finish the next part soon. Gdi...


End file.
